


Let me finish this game

by jamesraoulsilva



Category: 00silva - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 00Silva, M/M, So yes, The writing virus attacked again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond catches master cyber terrorist Raoul Silva. He's brought into the emergency MI6 headquarters to stay in a contemporary cell, before he gets transferred to prison. As highest ranking agent present, Bond is expected to stay with the criminal at all times until he's safely locked up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The locker room

The moment the helicopter touches down, Bond approaches him, with an apologetic look on his face. He roughly turns Silva around, handcuffs slightly rattling, and unceremoniously pulls a hood made of a dark fabric over his face. “I'd say I'm sorry, but you know the drill.”

“Well, luckily I'll have you as a guide, hmm?”

Bond gives him a shove forward and he almost takes a nosedive, barely keeping himself upright.

“So, maybe not,” Silva mutters to himself.

He hears Bond leaving the helicopter through the side hatch, but he isn't sure where it is located so he just stays where he is. Fragments of a conversation outside float into earshot.

“... high-security... supervision by an agent...”

“Well... bloody _not_ going to be...”

“I'm sorry, sir... only qualified...”

“... fuck you all.”

Someone re-enters and grabs Silva by the arm. He can smell it's Bond, he sniffed up that specific cologne while untying him from the chair in his server room.

Silva's put in a car as soon as they leave the chopper through the rear hatch. A waft of the cologne and an almost unruly amount of sweat and weariness sits down next to him. The engine roars almost immediately and aside from the noises the car makes, it's silent for a while.

He harrumphs. “If we're going to _mother_ base, could you take the mask off? I know where it is.” He knows that Vauxhall is sealed during the repairs and he knows the location of the emergency base; West Smithfield. He also knows that Bond knows this.

It remains silent.

Then a muttered reply comes. “Are you going to complain the whole way?”

The roaring of the engine suddenly goes accompanied by rain, steadily beating on the windows. Silva is glad he cannot look outside. He doesn't want to feel homesick all of a sudden, not now he's so close to an end to this all.

They exit the car and the stale underground air is stifling. Silva starts sweating in his three-piece suit, but then the safety door is opened and they enter the actual headquarters, welcomed by air conditioning.

Steps down, hallway, steps up, through a door, down a long hallway, through a door – the mask is pulled off and Silva blinks. He wants to turn around but Bond grabs him by the arm again and releases him from his handcuffs. Bond takes two steps back, putting the handcuffs away, and he allows Silva to take in the surroundings.

It's a small locker room, with a fairly heigh ceiling and small black-and-white tiles adorn the wall. Two of the walls are coverd by man-sized, standard grey lockers. There's a bench in the middle of the room, from which Bond grabs a plain, bland-coloured jumpsuit. He extends his arm for Silva to take the uniform.

Silva waits, rolling his shoulders, and rubbing his wrists, sighing a deliberately long and drawn-out sigh.

Bond gives him an annoyed look. “Go on, put it on. It's not Prada but I'm afraid it'll have to do.”

He sighs once more and looks back, the first time their eyes meet since Bond escorted him into the helicopter. “They haven't changed it in all these years? MI6 really stick to their standards, don't they?”

“I think they enjoy tradition. Can you stop complaining?”

He steps forward and snatches the uniform out of Bond's hand. Bond lets him, one hand coming back to rest firmly on his own right pocket, over his weapon. Silva follows Bond's movements with his eyes before shrugging his suit jacket off.

“I assume you are aware that I can't turn away,” Bond says with an almost apologetic look to his face.

Silva rolls his eyes and starts unbuttoning his suit vest. “Of course. Who told you that?”

“The instructions.”

He is aware that Bond is carefully taking in his every moment; he watches as the expensive jacket falls to the dusty floor.

“Of course they did.”

It's obvious that Bond's weariness is getting to him, as his voice is getting an annoyed tone to it. “Why, should I turn around and wait for you to overpower me?”

“Well, if you offer it, be my guest.” He bends over and takes his shoes off.

“I think we've had enough body contact for one long day, don't you think?”

Silva grins up quickly, before turning his attention to his shoes again. He's fumbling with the laces and almost loses his balance while standing on one leg. Bond gets closer and grabs his arm, steadying him.

“Nice shoes. Brioni?” Bond jerks his arm away as soon as Silva's fine again. He stands on both feet again and just kicks his shoes off before responding. “Yes.”

He glances up at Bond through his hair, hanging in front of his eyes. He cards one hand through it and moves his attention to unbuttoning his shirt. Bond is stiff as cardboard and tries to make casual conversation. “I suppose being a terrorist has its perks.”

Silva grunts a deeply guttural “hmm-mm” as reply. He starts shrugging his shirt off.

Bond's eyes go wide.

“Can I have that shirt?” Silva asks, pointing at a shirt hanging in one of the lockers.

“I –” Bond's breath catches in his throat, taking Silva in. He's standing with his shoulders hunched forward, making himself small. His back, chest and upper arms are riddled with white and pink faded lines. Some haven't healed well and have left ugly marks on the tanned skin.

Bond tears his eyes away and looks behind himself, grabbing the shirt and tossing it towards Silva, who grabs it out of the air. He unsuccessfully tries to pull it over his head.

“It's too small.” He holds the shirt out in front of him.

“Why, don't you like people staring at you?” Bond steps forward, his fingers brushing lightly against Silva's when he accepts the shirt.

Silva straightens his shoulders and looks Bond dead in the eye. “No,” he simply says.

“This isn't exactly a fashion event. Just put the jumpsuit over your skin.”

“Can I have a shirt.” An eye-roll. “It isn't exactly warm in those cells.”

Bond startles slightly. “How in hell would you know?” His voice is without irritation and he sounds genuinely curious.

“Can I have a shirt.”

Bond realises how much he enjoys finally being in control instead of Silva. “If I turn around, I have to frisk you.”


	2. Not big on philosophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of prodding and touching with a bit of philosophy on the side.

Silva looks at him with a frown.

“You’re still wearing your own pants,” Bond explains, “so _the instructions_ say I should frisk you.” He comes closer, with wide eyes.

“Well, go ahead.” His voice is blank.

Bond stands in front of Silva, first touching his pockets, trying to ignore the mottled scar tissue that is the man’s chest. He’s digging into the thin layer of tailored cotton in circling movements, making sure they are empty.

The muscles in Silva’s right arm are tensing beyond his control and he forces himself to breathe slowly.

Bond retrieves a small pocket knife from the right pocket, and while inspecting it, he says, “Swiss. Very nice.” He holds it up against the light before hiding it in the inner pocket of his own suit.

“Mm.”

“I do hope that wasn’t for me,” Bond whispers in a breathy voice while leaning closer to Silva. His hands start brushing downward, touching each thigh, thoroughly pressing his fingers into the fabric.

Silva leans back. “Maybe it was.” He observes the man now that he’s standing so close. Yes, definitely weary… but not indifferently so.  The agent is still alert, carefully checking his limits with Silva.

Bond looks up, their eyes meeting. “You mind?” He gestures at Silva’s legs, implying that he should spread them further apart. Silva bites the inside of his cheek, then does as he asks. Their eyes are now level, but then Bond slightly bends at the knees to get better access to his legs. They don’t break eye contact.

His thigh muscles flex subconsciously to Bond’s prodding and poking and exploring. He realises he has a clenched fist and uncurls his fingers. Bond starts inspecting his ankles and his hands slow down when there’s something hard under the fabric of the brown pants.

Bond’s eyes dart down and then back up again. “What’s that?”

“Why don’t you take a look yourself?” He starts to pull the pant leg up but then Bond grabs the Swiss he took from Silva before from his pocket, clicks the knife out and cuts through the cotton.

“How about we do this _my_ way.”

“Well it seems I can’t stop you.” And, like clockwork, an almost invisible line of red appears on Silva’s shin. He doesn’t feel pain. He’s far past that.

Bond doesn’t apologise, either. Also, far past that.

Bond finds a small pistol wrapped to Silva’s leg. As he’s retrieving it and cutting the wraps away, carefully this time, a smile creeps on Silva’s face. Bond empties the magazine and throws it across the room, stuffing the gun inside his empty, spare holster.

“You’ve got a lot of tricks up your sleeve, don’t you Mr Silva.”

Silva sighs, looks at the ceiling and tries not to react to the uncomfortable prodding. Bond doesn’t find anything on his legs, so he stands up straight again and touches Silva’s waist.

“Can I please have a shirt now.” His voice is soft but insistent.

“You touched me,” Bond retorts with a soft voice as well, despite the apparent accusation. “Maybe it’s my turn.”

Trying to hide his surprise, Silva tenses as Bond reaches around him, in what feels like an awkward hug, to search his back. “Are you sure this is in the instructions?”

Bond doesn’t immediately respond and Silva can practically feel the agent’s annoyance when he finds what’s stuck in his belt.

“Another gun?” A pause. “Well, it should be.”

“So you _do_ enjoy this,” Silva grins.

“It should be, because if it wasn’t, you would preserve your weapons.” They are carefully chosen words. He tugs the gun out roughly and takes out the magazine again before throwing the gun across the room.

Silva hisses, and Bond immediately quips, “too rough for you?”

Looking back with slightly narrowed eyes, Silva says, “I’m not impressed.”

“Good thing I’m not here to impress then.” Bond’s hands linger a moment longer than necessary on Silva’s arms before stepping back and asking, “what size are you?”

“L.”

Bond turns around and looks through the shirts. He takes one and extends the shirt over Silva’s naked chest for comparison. “This might work.”

Silva puts it on without a problem, and picks the uniform up from the bench, swinging it over his shoulder. He turns away slightly and starts undoing his belt. He shows his back to the other man when he unzips his trousers.

“At the headquarters the uniforms had other colours.” Bond’s voice is distant and he’s looking away. “Too bad you had to blow it up.”

Silva clenches his jaw and desperately wants to retort, but there’s a more pressing matter at hand. “Errr. Hmm. Do you have underwear?”

Gesturing at the uniform, still without looking, Bond replies. “It should’ve been in there. But of course it isn’t,” he mutters.

Silva zips the jumpsuit open and peers inside. “No. It isn’t.”

Bond takes two, three large strides to the door, unlocking it, while shouting, “can they do anything right in this place?” He’s making sure the agents outside hear him.

“You work here,” Silva mutters just loud enough for Bond to hear him.

“Jason! We need another set. And make it fast, will you,” Bond loudly says to one of the agents. He closes the door and locks it again. He notices Silva ruffling his hair with one hand, still not turning back. He has to keeps his gaze from the man’s lower back, where a strip of skin is showing. He dives into a locker and throws Silva a big, navy blue towel with MI6’s insignia on it.

Silva has his hands full and clumsily catches it, wrapping it around his waist. He starts wiggling his hips to get his pants off.

“Was it as inefficient back in your days?” Bond is finally watching the man without realising he’s doing so. “I know you were Station H, but before that.”

Accompanied by an annoyed glance, Silva says, “of course it was. And tons more paperwork.” He finally steps out of his pants, shoving them aside a bit with one foot.

Bond quickly turns away when Silva looks at him. “Not much has changed then. Except all the important parts.”

Silva’s face hardens and his lips tighten. “And who do you blame?”

“Blame seems reasonless to me. People, trying to find scapegoats for their misfortunes.”

“Do you have a… reason, then, for anything at all?”

“Maybe life is a casino,” Bond says, turning back to the man and looking him in the eyes. “Sometimes you win big. Most times you lose big.”

His eyes are bright and radiant and Silva finds himself having a hard time looking away. “That’s true. But do you believe you can influence it? Or is it, out of your hands?” He releases the towel with one hand, making a vague gesture.

The agent’s eyes watch his every movement. “Could it be both? You try to influence it, but at times it is out of your hands, for one reason or another.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m not too big on philosophy.”

“I noticed,” Silva says with glimmering eyes. He tries to suppress a shiver but horribly fails.

“Cold?” A small grin, that Silva is not sure he likes, is on the agent’s lips.

“Yeah. Can’t your guys hurry up a bit more?”

Bond rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he got lost on his way.” He throws Silva his own white jacket.

Silva has to release the towel to catch it and it starts sliding off, and in one horribly slow second everything goes wrong before the towel gets stuck on his hips and he manages to catch the jacket. Then Bond comes closer, taking the jacket back and putting it around his shoulders.

“Thank you.” Silva says it before he realises he does so.

Their eyes meet. “Don’t mention it.” Bond inhales deeply. “I don’t expect people to treat me differently when I’m in their captivity than they are treated in mine,” he explains, words slightly rushed.

Silva grins and dares a tease. “So, you _did_ think I was nice to you, too?”

“Wasn’t that awful,” Bond grins back.

Silva cocks his head, desiring an explanation, which Bond willingly gives. “A little foreplay and my favourite drink. I think I’ve had worse dates, actually.” His eyes study Silva’s, that are looking back at him curiously.

Then Silva laughs. “I’m glad you liked the drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now I'm just going with it, I'll see how it turns out (fluffy or not). Hope you enjoyed!


	3. That shouldn't stop you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pet names and exploring boundaries.

“Glad you liked the drink,” Silva laughs.

“Poor girl, though.” Bond doesn't break their eye contact. “She seemed to have a very high opinion of you. Thought you were extremely dangerous but to be respected.”

Silva shrugs. “She did?”

Bond raises a hand to brush against the lapel of his jacket, now worn by Silva. The other man breathes in sharply. “When I told her I wanted to meet her employer,” Bond continues, “she asked me how much I knew about fear. I told her I knew everything there was and she said, 'not like this, not like him'.”

Silva looks at the agent through his lashes. “And, how did you interpret that? That she was scared all the time?”

“She seemed... scared, but respectfully so. Almost... infatuated.”

Silva drinks in Bond's low voice and opens his eyes a little bit wider. “And you believed her?”

“The truth?” Bond's hands are still on Silva's chest.

Silva replies with a soft rumble on his lips. “Hmm-mm.”

It's the agent's turn to shrug and he says, “back then I thought I'd meet just another raging maniac hell-bent on destroying the world.”

Silva manages a chuckle and teases, “so I'm unique?”

“I'm not saying you're not a maniac,” Bond grins, teeth flashing white in the almost painful bright light. “I've gotten too used to this,” Bond goes on, his eyes clouding all of a sudden. “Murder becomes employment, faces become blurred.”

He starts nodding before he knows he does, and when he notices he stops immediately. He doesn't want to feel so connected to Bond, he doesn't want to get sucked back in the whirlwind of the old days. He refuses to admit to himself that this is the closest to _companionship_ , he ponders, that he's felt in the last decade.

Meanwhile, Bond continues his monologue. “One kill after another; eventually they all look the same.”

Bond stares in the strangely coloured eyes and asks them, “do we choose this? Does it choose us? When you win at the casino, does it count as a victory if they shoot you on your way out?” He seems almost lost in a trance.

“Well... You chose this employment, didn't you? Maybe not the outcome, but you knew what you were getting into.” Silva can't help himself; he's curious. So devilishly curious how someone almost exactly like him is faring in this vortex of craziness and murder.

“In some ways it chose me. But I suppose I didn't put up much of a fight.”

Silva chuckles softly. “Well, answer your own question. _Does_ it count as a victory?”

Bond's eyes flash with a badly-hidden pain, just for a second. Then his poker face is back. “It depends, I guess.”

“On what you won?”

“At the end of this, you win nothing. Either die, hopefully not too painfully, or...” He is silent for a moment.

Silva mutters “death can be a victory” but he isn't sure Bond heard him. He also isn't sure if he would want Bond to hear it.

“... or join the other side.”

“Meaning?” Silva's voice is sharp.

“Going rogue. Playing against your former employer. You'd know all about that.” Bond laughs his flirty smile and if it weren't for this topic they are discussing, Silva would call him out on that.

But he doesn't and bites back. “But you don't know the games _we_ played in the casino.”

“Which one, then?”

“Well, let's call it _betrayal_. She won.” He grits his teeth and winces as the fake teeth scrape against each other in his mouth. _Still not used to it_.

“She sees agents as re-usable pawns. But that's what she does.” Bond's voice is uncharacteristically soft for a moment before he resumes his usual sarcastic demeanor. “Then again, you blew up her home. Maybe the victory hasn't been declared yet.”

“Hopefully I'll have to opportunity to finish this game,” Silva smiles sadly.

“And what's at the end of it? Death?” The agent suddenly realises how involved he sounds. He isn't sure what to think of it.

Silva intently studies his face. “I don't know.”

“Why...” Bond's eyes move down, then back up again.

“Why... what?”

Bond licks his lips before he speaks again and Silva's eyes are glued to the movement. “Why, if that story is even true, at the end, after the rats eat each other in the drum, are there two left? Two. Not one, or three.”

Silva takes a moment to think, not sure whether to give an explanation and if so, which one. After a moment he breathes in and says, “maybe, in another story, there are three left. Or one. Not in mine.”

Bond grins a small grin. “So you purposefully modified it for me?”

“Not so selfish, Mr Bond.”

“Just arriving at a conclusion.” The grin almost splits his face in two.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door. Silva moves away and so does Bond, going to the door, unlocking and opening it. “Took your bloody time,” he yells at the junior's agent, grabbing the new uniform set before slamming it close in his face.

Silva grins softly and catches the uniform as it's thrown at him. He drops the towel and quickly puts on the boxer shorts, then slips his legs in the jumpsuit. “You can look again,” he says to Bond with a sing-song voice.

Bond turns around to him, slower than intended, and is greeted by the man's smiling face as he zips up his uniform and then rolls his shoulders.

“So, do you have special shoes or something?” Silva is teasing and Bond bloody well knows that. He worked here himself, bloody hell.

Bond tosses him the canvas bag without saying a word.

“Velcro... still velcro? Really?”

Bond sighs, then grins. “I know.”

Silva sits down and tries to put the shoes on, then looks up at Bond with innocent eyes. “Sorry to be a bother again, but these are way too small.”

Bond gives him a short eye-roll nd then ruffles through packs of shoes on the lower shelf of a locker. “What are you, size 10?”

“Ten point five.”

Bond throws a disgusted look over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Ten _point_ five?” Bond grins, delighting in how easy it was to throw the man of his a-propos. He hadn't managed to do that before. “They only have ten.” Bond is still looking through the shoe bags.

“New digs, huh.”

“I guess eleven is a rarity among prisoners.”

“It's not eleven, it's ten _point_ five,” Silva abundantly states.

Bond cocks an eyebrow. “Should I flutter my lashes and ask you to forgive me?” His voice is laced with sarcasm but his eyes are glinting.

Silva pretends to think about that. “Well, why not?”

“Because I'm not in your captivity anymore?” Bond's eyes glow brighter.

Silva throws him a look. “Why should that stop you?” he asks in his lowest, most hoarse voice.

Bond misses a breath and his heart almost skips. Almost. He's not a teenage boy, bloody hell. The advantage of the years is better retorts, however. “Should I also ask if it's true about the correlation between shoe size and... other parts?” His grin is impossibly wide.

Silva's turn – his breath catches, but he holds up his hand and moves his fingers slowly. “This part?” He is almost purring. Almost.

“No, I don't think that's what the gossip entails.”

Silva stands up, and slowly says, “enlighten me.”

Bond eyes him up and down, realising their ironically suggestive positions; his own almost on his knees, the other man, standing up. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Not as much as you,” Silva counters.

“Who says I would, at all?”

Silva cocks his head, his eyes gliding down from Bond's face to his waist, his sight unfortunately blocked by Bond's leg. “You, I think,” he says after taking a moment to think and lick his lips.

Bond notices the staring, shifting slightly to give Silva more to look at – he is rewarded by an appreciative sound from the man. “I haven't said a word,” Bond says.

“One can tell things without speaking, darling.”

Bond's eyes flash at the pet name and for a moment Silva fears he's made a horrible mistake.

“Darling?”

Silva tries to save his image by weakly waving his hand, trying to shoo the moment away, into the past.

Then Bond says, “do you really think I want it from you, my dear?”

His eyes flash a gorgeous blue and Silva swallows, before his own eyes start glimmering and he responds, “I think you can answer that question yourself.”

“I asked if you thought so. Sweetheart.”

“In that case I'm going to flatter myself and say... yes. Honey.”

They're stupidly grinning at each other.

“No flattery,” James Bond says, “you aren't atrociously looking... sugar.”

“Well,” Silva starts, glancing at his own outfit, “ _I_ have looked better, but I like that shirt on you, gorgeous.”

“It looks better with a tie, I'm afraid,” Bond says, realising his shirt is still unbuttoned at the top. Silva's fingers ghosting over his skin briefly flash in his memory and he has to swallow.

“Even better?” Silva mocks.

“Why, do you like the mess you've created?”

Silva takes two steps forward. “Apparently, I do.”


	4. Not the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short tale and an outstretched hand.

Bond closely watches Silva's movements. “I have to say, I've been tied to chairs before but no maniacs ever stroked my chest.”

Silva advances again. “But didn't you say it wasn't your worst date ever, hmm?”

“I said I've had worse dates. I wasn't including it as one of the dates... although...”

Bond stops talking because Silva takes the last few strides separating them and is looking down at him. He feels small and intimidated in his crouching position, and Silva is wearing a menacingly flirtatious grin.

“Although,” Bond manages to continue, “one can hardly call it a date if you're tied to a chair... but then I rememberd some of mine.”

Silva's response is to raise one eyebrow. After a short silence he says, “my, my, sugar. That wasn't in your files.”

“So unfortunate,” Bond says in a mocking tone, “if only you could talk to people instead of going through their evaluations.”

“I'm talking to you right now.”

“Ask away then.” Bond smiles his lop-sided grin to show he isn't offended. He holds up a shoe bag. “This is size eleven, by the way. Should work if you tighten the straps.”

Taking the bag, with their fingers brushing, Bond notices while grinding his teeth, Silva sits down in one fluent motion and zips it open. Bond has to tear his eyes away and closes the door of the locker, before sitting down somewhat more comfortably on the cold ground.

“What was your best date then?” Silva asks while putting the left shoe on. He tightens the straps and mutters, “not too shabby.”

“Well... If I see something I like, I go after it.” Bond grins suggestively. “Usually I don't care much for wining and dining, unless it is necessary.”

Silva makes it a point to not look at him and make a show of putting the other shoe on, terribly slowly. Bond ignores that and continues. “The best one would be... I guess a couple years back. It was winter, horrible snow storms in London. I returned from the mission and I wanted to kill someone who deserved to die. But I didn't.”

Bond is staring at the wall across and Silva finally looks up to him, done with the straps. Quickly Bond's eyes fly to the other man's. “And before you think I'm trying to insinuate something about you, please don't,” Bond smartly says. “I may not agree with you but that doesn't mean I wouldn't understand.”

At this, Silva looks down and away. He pulls his legs towards his chest and crosses his arms over them.

“I didn't kill him because he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him and she clearly loved him. I could do it to him, but not to her. That would make me like him.” Bond pauses and licks his lower lip. Silva is still not looking at him.

“So I came back through London's blizzard and went to the bar. We talked for a while, went up to their room. I think it was the Hyatt... I remember it was a long night.” Bond grins a lazy grin and Silva searches the other man's gaze.

“It was... liberating, somehow,” Bond says carefully. “I thought I wanted to punish myself for not being able to do what I should so I just let him do whatever he wanted.”

Silva's eyes narrow dangerously when he says 'him'. Then he rests his chin on hes knees and sighs. “And then? You just let him go?”

“After our long night, I woke up to the room service asking for another credit card to pay for the champagne.” His grin fades and creases start forming on his brow. “Because the previous card got declined. So they returned it, I looked at the name and recognised it from our database. He was an assassin, trying to kill me during the previous mission. I knew he was affiliated with my target, that's why I wanted to kill him in the first place, but I didn't know he was hired to kill _me_.”

Silva looks up to see a manic smile and carefully hidden disgust and, yes, there it is, pain.

“Small world,” Bond finishes his tale.

“So what did you do?”

“What do you think?”

“Do I want to know?”

They're staring at each other.

“I paid for the champagne,” Bond teases. Silva smiles a small smile and releases his knees, crossing his legs in front of him. His fingers start drumming the ground in the empty space between his legs and he seems to do that subconsciously as he's intently staring at Bond.

Bond crosses his arms and feels he should make his point clearer. “It was my favorite simply because of the sex against the door. Not the aftermath.” His voice is seemingly indifferent, but Silva raises one eyebrow and incredulously says, “I see... You never answered your own question though.”

“Which one?” Bond furrows his brow.  
  


“ 'You think I really want it from you, my dear?' ” Silva quotes back.

Bond grins. “How precise.”

“Hmm-mm,” Silva smiles. “So?”

“You expecting a white flag and raised arms?” Bond mimicks Silva's expression, as he had raised an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “I just want an answer. Just curious.”

“You know the answer. You _want_ me to surrender.” Bond's eyes glint mischievously.

Silva looks down with a crooked smile, his hair falling in front of his face and obscuring it.

“Yes,” Bond breates out.

Silva jerks his face back up and looks straight at Bond.

“You can call me every name in the book because of it.” Bond smiles a deadly grin with a sad feeling to it. He isn't sure why he's doing this. Maybe Mallory was right, it's a young man's game, and he isn't getting younger himself. Since Vesper he hadn't thought about his personal life and he has some catching up to do. Still...

Silva extends one hand with the palm up.

A peace offering?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter is so short, but this felt like the perfect point to break it off. The next chapter will follow soon! Thanks for reading, and your kudos and feedback mean a lot to me :)
> 
> love, jamesraoulsilva


	5. Back and forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're smart, and onto each other. And attracted to each other.

Bond's fingers brush against Silva's and the man slowly grabs his fingers. Bond momentarily closes his eyes at the sensation and internally berates himself for doing what he is doing right now.

Silva softly squeezes his hand before he mutters, “James.”

Bond slowly opens his eyes again, the bright blue seeming clouded. Silva looks at him, his own darker eyes unreadable. He brings his free hand to Bond's face, and brushes slightly against his jaw.

It's much like approaching a feral animal; one wrong move, one step too close and you're dead.

Bond looks down briefly and then up through his lashes.

Silva dares another move. He traces a path from Bond's jaw to his chin with one finger, and then rests it on his bottom lip. Bond's eyes flash but his lips part involuntarily at the touch.

Silva stops moving and stops breathing, looking intently at the agent's reactions. He is almost startled when Bond starts speaking, barely audible.

“I lied.”

Silva drops his hand.

“It wasn't good. At the hotel.”

Silva breathes in – not the topic he was fearing Bond lied about. Not a rejection on Silva's part.

“It was horrible. I couldn't wash it off for days. I don't know why I even...” Bond swallows and continues when Silva brushes the top of his hand with his thumb. “Don't know why I told you.”

His eyes are darting across the room, slightly manic, from their hands to Silva's face and back and to the door. Silva has dealt with enough wild beasts to know when to back off.

His voice is really quiet when he suggests, “it's okay if you want to go. And forget this happened.”

Apparently, he had a lapse in judgement judging _this_ rare species, because Bond only grins a pain-filled grin and just as quietly responds, “actually, I know why. 'What makes you think it's my first time.' “ The worlds roll off his tongue slowly, quoting this ancient-seeming line back at Silva.

“How precise,” Silva says with a stern face, and then breaks out in an ugly, contorted grin.

“It was my first time.”

Finally Bond's eyes stop shifting around and he looks down. Silva takes his chin roughly and forces him to look in his eyes. Bond refuses but eventually stares back at him.

“Never done it since?” Silva then lets go of his chin. There are red marks where his thumb and first two fingers dug into Bond's skin.

Bond sucks at his teeth and after a moment, replies. “Tried a few times but nothing serious. I would kiss, touch, and then I'd remember.”

Silva rearranges their fingers, now interlacing. “I know... I know what it's like.”

Bond watches him with renewed interest. “You do?”

“Mm. I think I do.”

“So making fun of my trauma... You were talking about a familiar place then?” Bond strokes the soft patch of skin between Silva's thumb and index finger with his own thumb.

Silva suppresses a shudder and avoids the question. “I didn't mean to make fun of it.”

“I know.” Bond's eyes are warming up.

“But my... first time wasn't exactly stellar.” He lets out a sharp laugh and Bond finds his hand to fly to Silva's face, barely touching but Silva actually leans into it. Bond rests his wide-spread hand on his jaw and Silva's eyelis flutter shut.

Bond's voice is nothing more than a soft rumbling sound when he mutters, “we share that too, then.”

“Sí, we do.” His tongue darts out to lick his dry lips. “How funny that you're the one to say that.”

Bond ignores the last remark, trying to tear his gaze away from the man's mouth. Suddenly he looks at the door and Silva hangs his head low.

“We should get back. I don't want them to suspect anything.”

“Yes we should.” Silva smiles a sas smile.

Bond starts to get up but stops and turns back to Silva, his voice loud but a bit shaky. “I know you read my file-” an apologetic grimace from Silva “-so you must know I tend to... cling to temporary missions in bed. So I won't do the one thing I really want to do right now.”

There's a moment of silence before Bond continues. “I like playing games with you but this isn't one of the games.”

Silva stands up and pulls James up with him, tugging him into an embrace. Bond's not expecting this and breathes laboured, shallow breaths before pulling the man closer. Silva's hot breath in his neck is distracting, to say the least and his hands kneading Bond's back – very comforting. Silva is not a clingy man but he knows how to comfort.

Bond finds his words again, “mm you're making this harder than it is.”

Silva only laughs a muffled laugh and lets go, stepping back.

“Cuddling with the enmy, I'm breaking all the rules.”

“Hmm. Maybe you are.” Silva's laugh fades away and he looks at the ground, to the door and back to the ground.

Bond reaches out to straighten his jumpsuit and tugs at the collar, folding it neatly. “Looks good on you,” he grins.

“Liar,” Silva declares. “Well, shouldn't we get going?”

“It does, actually. White looked better but this suits your bad boy routine more.”

Baring his teeth first, Silva bites his lower lip, knowing exactly the effect it has on the agent. “You'll hopefully get enough time to explore my... bad boy routine.”

“Even though I intend to lock you up?” Bond is – indeed – staring at the man's mouth. Again.

“Well... I believe a certain someone in this room has a certain access to a certain prison cell.” Silva gives Bond a look that he's learned to interpret as... as... well, flirting might be an appropriate word for it.

“So I'm going to visit my jail-bound... suspect? Boyfriend? Enemy?” Bond tries not to laugh, his eyes glinting.

Silva cocks his head with a tight-lipped smile. “I don't see why not?”

“Not going to dissect the words?”

Bond leans in closer and Silva practically growls, “not interested in that right now.”

“Or maybe you just liked it too much.”

“Maybe, but maybe... I'll just let you guess, keep this interesting, no?”

They;re both leaning in, not touching, but only _just_ not touching.

“You seem hell-bent on making things interesting for me.” Bond is about to move in for the kill when there's a knock on the door and Silva virtually flies backward against the wall opposite of the door. His grin is replaced by a sad expression and is about to mouth a sorry to Bond when he changes his mind and remains silent.

“Yes?” Bond impatiently calls out.

“Are you ready yet? They're waiting for Mr Silva,” Jason yells from outside.

Bond advances on Silva and grabs the loose fabric of the slightly-too-big jumpsuit, tugging him closer. “Well maybe if you were a bit more bloody competent it wouldn't take so long.” This effectively shuts the poor young thing up and causes Silva to laugh softly. He rests his hands on Bond's waist.

The blue eyes grow gorgeously wide and Bond has to tear himself away to shout at the door, “I'll walk him into the cell.”

He goes on to whisper in Silva's ear, “I don't want anyone else touching you.”

Silva stiffens – out of habit – as he feels the agent getting so close, before he forces himself to relax and whispers back. “I appreciate that.”

“The doors lock automatically, but afterwards I'll need to put in a code. Any code, five digits mixed with letters.”

“Okay.” Silva whispers back.

Bond holds him out at an arm's length to look at him. “I know you're planning something.” Both of their expressions turn grave as Bond goes on, “should I play along, or..?”

Bond isn't stupid. Stupidity doesn't get you through 20 years of being a double-oh and staying alive for that amount of time. Underneath the bad boy flirty layer, there's a deeper one of blinking too much and body tension. Undoubtedly a liar. He doesn't yet know the man's backstory exactly but he can surmise as much as the dyed hair and obviously surgically altered face are open to suggestion.

He outs all this in the form of one raised eyebrow – to which Silva takes deep breaths, blinks fast _– again –_ and looks away.

“I...”

“Are you...” Bond isn't sure how to continue for the second time, taken aback by Silva's sudden indecisiveness.”

“I don't think you want to know. Because I don't want to tear you in half.” Silva has difficulty speaking, emotion threatening to take over his voice.

Now Bond lifts up Silva's chin. Silva looks away.

“I don't want you to be in here,” Bond says slowly.

“You don't want me to be out there either.”

“Do you have a favourite word?” Bond chooses to ignore Silva's statement. “Five letters, one letter can be replaced with a digit.” Silva inaudibly mutters something.

“An 'S,' for example,” Bond continues straight through him, 'can be a five. Not that I thought anything with an S is your favourite,” he adds quickly.

Silva looks him up and down and then blurts out, “just make it 'james' already.”

Bond shivers. “I didn't-” he protests weakly, “didn't ever occur-”

Silva tugs him closer, as close as possible and Bond breathes out.

“It'll be james with a 5 at the end.”

“Okay.”

“Try not to kill our men... and...”

“And?”

“And don't get hurt.”

Silva grabs Bond's shirt and feels that the agent's skin is cold underneath – he gave his jacket to Silva what seems like hours ago and it's freezing in the small room. So he pulls him closer against his broad chest and says against Bond's neck, “I'll try to. Same goes for you.”

Bond's fingers delicately wind themselves in Silva's hair.

“As long as you don't kill me I should be fine,” Bond laughs.

Silva feels himself growing cold. He knows Bond is catching on to something. He does his best not to freeze and turn away and instead manages to squeeze out a laugh, which sounds more like a cry of pain in retrospect.

He retakes himself and answers in a mock sing-song voice, “I'll do my best.”

“Should I be worried?”

Silva decides he can let the agent on to a small bit of information. For playing along so nicely, he thinks bitterly. “That depends where you are at a certain time.”

“Will I get warnings?”

Silva laughs hoarsely. “Yes, you will. Plenty, in fact.”

“Hmm. Does the accused desire anything as his last wish, then?”

“I didn't know MI6 was a wish-granting factory.”

“I wasn't speaking on behalf of MI6.”

There's a knock on the door again, breaking through there delicate reverie.

“Bloody hell-” “-mierda,” they mutter simultaneously.

“Yes, Jason, you can tell Tanner, we're there.” Bond shouts, and his voice promises a thrashing. A painful one, Silva can tell.

“I didn't know Tanner was still working here.”

“You hate him?” Bond asks, surprised.

“No.”

“You better not have had anything with him.” Bond's tone is half-teasing, half-serious.

Silva laughs. “No, I didn't... My first time was...” He turns serious within a split-second again and shakes his head, starting to move away. He feels like a fool for bringing this up again – he should be getting ready to _go_ according to his planning. When he looks at Bond, however, he doesn't feel like he's in a hurry when he sees the man's concerned gaze.

Bond blocks the way. “You don't have to tell me. I just know this isn't the same.” He reaches for Silva's hand and rubs it between his own, trying to put some warmth in it.

Silva swallows and decided he might as well spill his beans. “It was back when I was in China, and...” He bites is lip and is physically unable to go on.

“It wasn't consensual?” Bond whispers.

Silva swallows again, audibly, and nods. Bond pulls Silva against him and presses his lips against his jaw. He feels the man shiver in his grip. “May they rot for that.” He kisses the corner of Silva's lips.

“I hope they do.”

Bond weighs his options, then decides to go against his nature. “Where have you been,” he mutters, “all this time I was looking and now I meet you and I'm supposed to just forget this?” He slides his hand over where Silva's heart is.

“People always forget. That's the problem.”

“Well then I'm not most people.” Bond's eyes flicker to the door and with a sigh, he asks, “your last wish?”

Silva thinks this over.

“And then I'll cater you off so that you can show them you're strong and not weakened,” Bond finishes.

Silva looks down with a smile plastered to his face, then takes Bond's face in his hands and kisses him on his mouth, pressing only a soft kiss before leaning back.

Bond smiles. “Fine then. Let's go, _Mr Silva_.” He turns towards the door and Silva follows him, grinning to himself.

Then Bond turns around and kisses Silva fiercely, almost knocking him over with the intensity of it. Silva leans back at first, surprised before returning the kiss.

“Had to wipe that smug grin of yours off,” Bond whispers against his lips. Silva bites Bond's lower lip before he replies, “look who's talking.”

Bond grins and moves away, opening the door for him. “Till later, Mr Silva.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was basically 'it.' I don't know if I will continue this story, don't know if you guys are interested in either a fluff/angsty follow-up? I'd love to hear it from you.  
> Cheers, and as always thanks for reading. 00silva fandom still going strong. -jamesraoulsilva

**Author's Note:**

> I have both a fluffy and an angst/terror/everything usually 00silva in mind, I might post two different verions. Not sure yet.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and as always, more to come.


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